I remember slow nights
Sitting up on Daly Hill
Where the air always felt a bit colder
Across my skin leaving chills.
I would lay down looking up,
The stars would lay up looking down
No people, just all the nature
Stirring from the trees around.
Just a kid with a notebook,
Just a kid with a dream,
Waiting for life to enter the scene.

I wasn't looking for answers there,
I lacked the knowledge of questions to ask.
But life only leaves you wondering
When time has already past.
If I could paint it out as a picture,
I wouldn't and can't.
You just have to be there,
In a place where the world feels still
Looking over nothing, up on Daly Hill.

Simply put, I love crones & hags & weirds---
raised by witches, trained by dominatrixes
who were also witches, taught by lesbians
who were abusive to each other, rebel housewives dancing naked & shaking Jennifer's ****---bleary-eyed & dead
& crossing the Styx into my arms, Gwyneth,
a paltry sum blithely buys u & ur dangerous mother
as a pair disguised as redheaded North Korean hucksters---
using the broken silence of the shield,
the flood an excuse to wield the sacred labrys
of the icy north against the world tree
blooming in the tropical south just discovering color---do u see it?
The chabols going where Gun-Hye
makes love to Dan Gun & I watch with pearl-like vision---
Sodomizing Mishima's grandmother
like a drunken gay samurai---
Any drunken woman named Medusa
has the golden key to my brass heart,
it ticks like a watch, her skull my hourglass for now,
there is a river near where her car broke down
but she can't drown---
worth breaking in to steal her screaming cherries---
Witch-y women like Circe, Medea, Morgan le Fay
turn me on & turn me into swine---
Hot **** - I've got nkd Jezebel pinned to my wall, Lilith in her closet pinned to the wall, as above so below, look below & above;
better than that dreamer Raquel 
---tawny as a miner, she keeps the key
& runs through the mall --
9 Muses blaring over the PA -- the Roman witches faring better,
Aloud taken hostage by the sausage grinding
men made of meat that meet on the corner
of ISIS' mythical ******* caliphate---
strange how many young men have met on the corner,
standing in a circle, do-*** to delinquents,
single mother-drug addict prostitutes,
tricks & poets, dealers, rats, just plain loose girls,
writers of social realist novels --- philosophers
& above, the poet climbs in through her future window
from the fire-escape of the past into her room of the present---
There she downs her ***** filled high-ball glass  
& eagerly pours herself another---
there will be no rap music, no tap dancing, no blackface---
Only r&b; how does that make u feel, really?
Yet ur viking mother crossed the green sea
to get to the blue one where she turned red
& blk & green like Medusa of the golden key---
Not that Medusa, the other one --- the fireball